


Twenty Years

by onthewaters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, F/M, Germany, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, so many feelings, the Russians are good guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewaters/pseuds/onthewaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1991. After the Soviet Union dissolves, Hydra will take possession of the Winter Soldier. This does not go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Years

1991

The asset woke slowly, still within his cryochamber. His muscles burned unpleasantly with cold. But that would soon pass, he knew. His chamber was still sealed; he cranked the inside handle to open it. As the door swung open, warm air hit his face and hands. He sighed and hoped that the mission wasn't too urgent for him to get warmed up all the way.

It probably wasn't. The room outside his chamber was empty save for one man, who was sitting at the table, a bottle and two glasses before him. Odd. Usually, the asset was woken for missions. Not for drinking.

The man - Michail Surov, one of the asset's handlers - waved for him to get out and come to the table. The asset did, sitting across from Surov, raising his cold bare feet off the floor. Even more oddly, there was not even a radio playing. The indoctrination chair, however, had been turned on and was humming softly in the corner. The asset wondered where this was going. He hadn't done anything recently requiring the need for more indoctrination. 

Surov poured until the glasses were full. Vodka, of course. He pushed one glass towards the asset who took it, turning it this way and that. Occasionally, after a mission well-executed, Surov would share a drink with all of his subordinates, including the asset. Surov was, the asset thought, his best handler yet. It was hard, sometimes, but Surov had a Russian soul under his Soviet uniform, and that made up for much. 

"Drink, comrade," Surov said, his voice raw and strained. He looked older than the last time the asset had seen him. Old and tired. 

The asset drank. So did Surov. The vodka burned pleasantly through the foul taste the cryofreezing left in the asset's mouth. He waited.

Surov finished his glass, then filled it again. Then he straightened and for the first time that day, looked the asset in the eye.

"Comrade, I have bad news," he finally said. And fell silent as if he didn't know how to go on. The asset waited. Finally, Surov made a new start. "The Soviet Union is dying." He drank. "It began in Germany. Germany, now. No more East, no more West. The Wall has fallen, and the Iron Curtain is torn, remnants flying in the wind." He drank.

The asset considered the news. "What year is it?"

"Nineteen-ninety-one," Surov said. "The twenty-fourth of December. Tomorrow, Comrade Gorbachev will resign and our great nation will fall apart." He wiped his face. "It is not all. Our department will be disbanded, our records put in the hands of those who are meant to destroy them but will use them for themselves. And then there will be a new use found for us." He drank again. "Most of us."

The asset waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, he asked, "Will I be terminated?"

Surov shook his head. "No. Worse." He paused, then continued. "It was decided-" the word was spat out, "that the only use left for you is to make them some money. Bastards."

That was unexpected. The asset had been the greatest weapon in the war against capitalism. But if communism was now about to die, he had become obsolete. But that begged the question where he was being sold.

"Comrade Surov, who has bought me?"

Surov looked fit to murder whoever was responsible with his bare hands. "Hydra. They were the only ones who were willing to offer. Americans! Bloody Americans! For decades we fought them and now our greatest weapon, our most loyal soldier, sold to them!" His hands shook. The asset gently laid one of his on Surov's. 

Surov did not stop shaking. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." The asset pushed the glass toward him; he drank. Then he pushed his shoulders back. "Comrade, I've been instructed to indoctrinate you for your next handler. The first man you see when you come out of cryofreeze the next time, the first to give you an order, will be your new handler, to be obeyed in all things. Drink up." 

The asset drank, then stood to follow Surov to the indoctrination chair.

"We will deliver the indoctrination chair and the documentation to Hydra," Surov explained, fitting the straps around the asset's body. "However, we can't deliver you that way - between your arm and the necessary indoctrination, they'll have to get you out of the cryochamber themselves. Here's to hoping they'll smash their damn fingers." He smiled grimly and the asset mirrored his smile. "We'll take the chamber to an abandoned property in Germany, right at the former border. Nothing around for miles, save for the Todesstreifen. You remember?" The asset did. The death strip was the five kilometer wide strip along the inner German border where the soldiers of the German Democratic Republic were under orders to shoot to kill any of their citizens trying to escape. 

Surov was still talking. "These days there isn't a border there any longer, but it's not too populated yet. The Germans are still finding their feet in this new nation of theirs. So Hydra will have all the opportunities to pick you up. We'll deliver you there."

He paused, his hand on the switch. "I know I said it before, but I'm sorry, Comrade. We repay you badly for your service, very badly."

The asset asked, "What about you, Comrade? Where will you go?"

Surov laughed the most bitter laugh the asset had ever heard. "Drive a taxi, tovarish. I worked for a secret department, too secret to give me a pension. I bought a used Trabant from a German who now drives Volkswagen. I will drive my taxi until the vodka catches up with me."

The asset was not glad to hear this. "I'm also sorry, Comrade."

Surov rubbed at his face again, but the asset saw that his eyes were wet. "No happy end for either of us. I still wish you well."

"And I you."

"Ready?"

"Yes," the asset said. And the world ended.

 

1992

The asset woke quickly. Something had gone wrong with the cryochamber. The alert was on, blaring into his left ear, the chamber window was smashed, shards and splinters everywhere, and somebody was running towards the chamber. He tried the crank with his right hand and found it stuck. With his left hand, he made dents, but it finally turned, painfully slowly. The asset hurt; his thawing muscles shrieked with every movement, but in the strobe light from the alert, he could see a construction beam, bricks, and debris, and that meant that the building he was in was damaged and he had to get out.

The steps ran closer, and just as he got the chamber's door open, a woman fetched up at the bottom of a staircase across from the chamber, stared at everything and him and yelled, "Stop!" 

It was an order; the indoctrination settled down into its tracks and lined up everything that was happening with this woman as his new handler. The asset stopped.

The woman leaned against the doorjamb (the actual door was missing), breathing hard. She was in her late thirties, early forties, medium height, medium weight, blond and blue-eyed. Out of shape, sedentary job, no fight training. Clothes to wash the floor in. She said something in German, tone explanatory. The asset was likely to still be at the drop point. 

The woman stared at the broken beam, the mess on the floor which was huge. Apart from the bricks and the former ceiling, there were pottery shards, ancient insulating material, newspaper, Styrofoam and other things the hollow ceiling had been stuffed with. There was also a washing machine. Dust swirled in psychedelic patterns made by the alert strobe. 

The woman winced, then picked her way around the washing machine to the chamber. The asset, not having been given any other order, stayed where he was. 

The woman poked and prodded the chamber, then finally, the alert stopped. The asset breathed a sigh of relief. His ears would stop ringing any minute now and he could see a ray of light - natural light - fall through the hole in the ceiling. 

The woman appeared again in his field of vision. She looked at his arm, then at his face and spoke. He didn't understand the German.

This might be a problem. Indoctrination said that she was his handler, and the asset had never known indoctrination to fail, even if it was obviously, glaringly obviously wrong. Like now. He would be following her orders, no matter what. If he could understand them. 

She seemed to be waiting for an answer. "I don't speak German," the asset said finally. 

She said something else, with "Russian" in it. Then asked, "Do you speak English?"

Communication at least. "Yes," the asset said.

She looked relieved. "Great. Who are you?"

"The Winter Soldier," the asset said.

The woman stared, unattractively. "What?"

"The Winter Soldier."

"But that's not a name," she protested, then shook her head. "I - this is too complicated. Just, just stay there, I'll find you some shoes."

The asset waited until the woman returned. From the hole in the ceiling he heard bumping and a baby crying. 

She came back with a pair of rubber boots which she put on his feet, there being no room to sit or stand anywhere but the cryochamber. On touching his feet, she frowned. 

"You're freezing. Aren't you cold?"

"Yes," the asset said. Also hungry and thirsty. Cryofreeze slowed everything down but took energy, and the only thing he'd had was the vodka. He vaguely hoped Surov was all right with his taxi. 

"Okay. Okay, I can do something about that. Come on."

He followed her out of the cellar and up into the house. It was, in a word, decrepit. He looked around. Efforts to make renovations were evident but it seemed like a losing battle. The baby was still crying. The woman led him to a kitchen with a huge dinner table. 

"Here, sit down and take those off again. I'll just get some blankets." 

She was back almost immediately, dumping a load of blankets on his lap, then put a huge pot with water on the stove, and a white enamel bowl at his feet.

"This is going to take a while, I don't have a kettle, sorry." She ran her hand through her hair. "Let me just get the baby."

The asset wrapped himself in the blankets and sighed with pleasure. They were old and soft, all of them, faded and flowery, smelling of detergent. Comfortable. The asset couldn't remember the last time he'd been covered in anything that wasn't military in some way. The kitchen was lit by the large windows looking out into blooming spring. 

The woman returned, screaming baby on her arm. "Sorry about this. She always cries."

The asset remembered crying babies, but didn't think he'd ever had any of his own. 

"You were in that thing," the woman said, bouncing the baby. "What was that?"

"The cryochamber," the asset told her. "Between my missions, I am frozen."

"Frozen," she repeated, sounding as if she was trying to make sense of something that could not be made sense of. "Missions?"

How to explain this to what was obviously a civilian? "I am the Winter Soldier. I was an asset of the Red Room in the Soviet Union. When it collapsed, I was sold to an American organization." Something occurred to him. "The Soviet Union did collapse? Didn't it?"

The woman stared at him. "Yes. Yes, it did. Last year, Gorbachev resigned, and now there are a lot of former Soviet countries. What do you mean by asset? I know asset deals as opposed to share deals, but assets aren't usually people. More like real estate."

Not good. "An asset of the Red Room is a government sanctioned spy or assassin."

She swallowed. "Three guesses which one you were."

The asset didn't know what to say, so said nothing. His stomach did for him. It growled.

The woman smirked, an expression nobody with a screaming baby should ever have, and asked, "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"Yes to both," the asset said. His stomach agreed.

She nodded. "Right. I'll make you something to eat and you take care of her." She handed him the baby and the indoctrination slotted another order into his growing collection. Take care of the baby. 

The asset worried. The woman had to be - there had to be something wrong with the woman. She'd just handed a baby to a man who'd just told her that he was an assassin. Normal people wouldn't do that. The asset would never have handed a baby to himself. 

But the indoctrination had settled, and he would take care of her. He considered her crunched-up red face, her eyes swollen from all the crying, and remembered how to hold a baby. Not when he'd done it or why, but how. He settled her against his left shoulder, rubbing her back. 

The woman had turned around and taken several more pots out of the refrigerator, putting them on the stove. Something sticky and white was scraped into different bowl and put into another kitchen device. The asset didn't know this one, not having been in kitchens much during his missions. She turned it on and it began to hum and the bowl inside turned in a circle. Non-military technology was odd. 

The woman put water in front of him, with a glass, and a pot with tea steeping in it. The rest of the warm water was poured into the enamel bowl and the asset put his feet into it. Heaven. Pure heaven, all this warmth from the water and the blankets. 

The baby was quieting down against his shoulder. He took a quick look at her but she seemed fine, just tired. The woman watched them for a long moment then bent down with her ear at his shoulder. 

"It's humming, vibrating very softly," she reported. "Must be soothing her. First thing that ever did." She straightened up again and looked at the asset. "Just to get this clear. You're a former Soviet assassin and your new organization hasn't picked you up yet. Does that mean you're not out to kill anyone right now or what?"

The asset petted the baby to gain time. How could he spin this so she wouldn't call the police? For that matter, what did she want to hear? "I don't know why my new handlers haven't picked me up yet. I don't have any missions to kill right now." True enough. His current mission was to take care of the baby. 

"Okay," the woman said, turning back to the stove to stir the pot which was beginning to smell quite good. The oven-like thing beeped and she took out the bowl. The asset could finally see it better. Rice. With a bit of butter, if the smell was anything to go by. His mouth watered. 

"Okay, look," the woman said. "I realize this isn't - you know, but I am dead on my feet. I haven't had any good sleep for way too long, and if she's quiet while she's on your arm, you can stay here. Be a babysitter. Just. I've got to get some sleep, and I really do have to work, and the house is way too much work, and if Susi and Georg were still alive I'd kill them again just for leaving me alone with her. She's cute and everything, but she cries and cries and cries and I didn't sign up for this and -" She stopped, probably at what she saw in his face. "Sorry."

The asset looked at her. He'd seen many people in extremis, and more people in despair, and far too many people at the very end of their strength. One of his marks had looked the same way, just before he'd stopped running and waited for the asset to kill him. 

If the asset was without a handler for too long, he'd go into cardiac arrest, the asset knew. A piece of indoctrination to prevent him from going off the grid. So he had to have his handler close. For better or worse, for now the woman was his handler. And she'd better not kill herself out of desperation over the baby crying. 

"Susi and Georg?" the asset asked, gentling his voice.

"My sister and her husband," the woman said. "Susi had the baby, and there were complications. Georg called Papa - our Papa, Susi's and my father, and our mother. Georg was afraid to drive, so he called them to take him to the hospital. And they had an accident. Icy roads."

Loss, then. The asset knew the feeling, but did not know why. "I'm sorry," he said. 

The woman shook her head. "Everything's gone wrong. I lost all my family in one day, and then somebody had to take the baby and she wasn't going into an orphanage, so I had to take her. But she only cries and I don't know what to do anymore. Then this house." She gestured. "Uncle Maik fled over the border years back and he'd died two years ago and Papa inherited the house but couldn't get to it because it was on the wrong side of the border, and Papa was just getting ready to sell it, but then they all died and unless I moved into it, I'd have to pay inheritance tax on it and I've only been here two days and now the washing machine falls through the fucking floor and it's too much, it's just too much." She turned back to the stove and brought over the pot. The asset took a look. Brown stew with meat. 

"Stroganoff," the woman said, putting out dishes. "Lasts me a week, then it comes out of my ears." She ladled rice and stew on a plate and pushed cutlery toward the asset. 

"Thank you," the asset said and ate. Warm and savory. He wondered if she would always feed him like this. 

"You're welcome." She sat down next to him and took the tea bag out of the pot, pouring him tea. Such warmth. 

He ate, keeping the baby on his arm. The woman watched him silently, giving him seconds, leaving him to this new warmth. 

"Name's Charlotte, by the way," she said suddenly. "The baby's name. And, um, just so we understand each other, it does not rhyme with harlot. Char-lo-tte. Not Char-lott. Got it?"

"Got it," the asset said. "What's your name?"

"Petra. Petra Schönberg."

The asset tried a smile. "Nice to meet you, Petra."

"Same." She sat up a little straighter. "But I'm not calling you Winter Soldier. Don't you have a first name?"

"Can't remember," the asset said, savoring his tea and stew. "I'm not Russian, as far as I know, and my English is so good-"

"It clearly indicates that you are foreign," Petra said. At his look she deflated a bit. "My Fair Lady?"

"What?"

"It's a musical, and one of the lines is Her English is so good that clearly indicates that she is foreign. I guess they didn't show you many musicals."

"No," the asset said, feeling slightly derailed. "No, I mean that I speak English very well, so I was probably born American."

"Maybe," Petra allowed. "You sound American to me at least."

"Your English is very good as well," the asset observed.

"I studied it," Petra said, "I studied translation at university. I'm a freelance translator. But back to your name. If you can't remember it, why don't you pick one?"

The asset shrugged. "John? Jack? Jim?"

Petra rolled her eyes. "All of them, maybe? Or Tom or Dick or Huckleberry?"

The asset surprised himself by laughing. "Who is the most American man you can think of ?"

"James Dean," Petra said immediately. "If you disregard Elvis or Harrison Ford. But Indiana Jones is still the greatest hero ever."

The asset said, "I have no idea who any of these people are. But if James is fine by you, I'll take that." It also felt right. The asset didn't quite remember but had the feeling that if she hadn't had a James in that bunch of names, he would have waffled until she'd named one. 

"Great. James, then." Petra considered baby Charlotte on his shoulder. "You want me to put her in her bed?"

Take care of the baby. "No, she's fine. Snores."

"Figures," Petra said. "All right. You're my cousin or something from America, come to help me with everything, in case anyone asks. If you don't move that arm, it looks like a prosthesis. If anyone asks, look stoic and dramatically enduring and say you don't want to talk about it. I'll guilt people into believing you were injured in the Gulf War. Okay?"

"Okay," the asset said. "What happens now?"

"Now I go look at the hole in the floor my washing machine made. Then I'll drive to a pay phone to call a contractor to fix the hole and order a new washing machine. Then I'll look at my bank account and start crying." She stood up. "But first, let me get some sleep."

The asset nodded and reminded the indoctrination that he now had to call himself James. 

***

They did have to put down the baby later, in order to drag the cryochamber into the back part of the cellar to avoid inconvenient questions from the contractor. But that night, James slept in a bed, finding that he was out of practice sleeping outside the cryofreeze. Also, sleeping in a bed with a woman, a baby between them. Little Charlotte, only two months old and an orphan for all of it, slept pressed against his metal arm, lulled to sleep by the electronic noise. James tried not to move around too much. Petra slept like the dead.

She was also much less frayed in the morning. By the time Charlotte and James woke, she'd made breakfast, a bottle for Charlotte, and swept up the mess in the cellar. 

Leaving James to deal with Charlotte, Petra went back to work at her translations. James took Charlotte outside to get to know the lay of the land. Mostly wooded landscape, a long gravel road, an old and broken greenhouse. A pavilion, overgrown with roses, vines and ivy. James sat on the bench there for some time, making clucking sounds at Charlotte who found this enthralling.

In the evening, they bathed Charlotte, Petra showing James how to hold her. It was rather intuitive; do not let her drown should not require this much explanation. 

"She's still to young to want to play in the water," Petra said. "Enjoy it while you can."

James, to his own surprise, did.

Even more, he enjoyed peace. 

 

1993

The day all the renovations were finished, Petra took her car out for groceries and brought back a bottle of champagne. They drank it under the stars, out in the January snow, in the winter-bare pavilion, one eye and ear aimed at the open window where Charlotte slept.

James no longer sought warmth above all else, but he still hated cold. He remembered more, now, enough that they had figured out that he really was not in his early twenties, but old enough to remember World War II. He was more sure than ever that James was and had always been his name, and Petra occasionally teased him by running through dozens of other names, one more outlandish than the first. 

Charlotte only called him Zhay, the closest thing she could come to James. He privately thought that he could not wait till she figured out the rest of his name. 

Their few neighbors had gotten used to James, mostly because they were older women who cooed over a man with a baby. Petra had rented a movie called Look Who's Talking, and James had covered his face with embarrassment. Charlotte had tried to pull his hands down and laughed when she could see his face again. 

There had been no word or sight of Hydra. 

James had several strategies in place in case anybody from Hydra turned up. Much of the wood was now booby-trapped, a perimeter had been defined and James had carefully arranged the house's environs to give him the maximum number of weapons and the enemy the maximum number of obstacles. Petra had said nothing about any of them, simply asked if there was anything he needed from the hardware store. James never went to town. 

Sometimes James wondered if he should be doing something else but wait and watch Charlotte grow up and Petra complain her way through translations. He prodded his memories, but nothing floated to the surface. All seemed well. 

In July, Petra's newest project arrived. But when the postman turned his van around, James saw another car behind him. An old, used Trabant. 

***

Surov looked old and tired, but not quite as sad as he had when James had last seen him. 

"This is very nice, tovarish," Surov said in Russian, fondling his glass of gin. "Who would have thought you'd find such a nice house and such a nice woman in this day and age?"

James shrugged. "You found them for me, I think."

"I wish we could take credit," Surov said, a little mournfully. "The property was abandoned when we left you here. So it's no thanks to us you found such a nice woman."

Petra poured him more gin. "I have no idea what the two of you are saying, but I recognize that look."

Surov smiled at her and switched to English. "Frau Schönberg, I would never offend."

She laughed. "I'm not offended. Herr Surov, why were you looking for James?"

James would have liked to know as well.

Surov sighed and sipped his gin. "Ah, well, you see, James here was meant to have a new - shall we say, employer. And his new employer is wondering where he is."

"Really," James said. "Didn't you tell them where to pick me up?"

Surov shrugged. "They know. And they know that you are, in fact, awake and not dead from a lack of a handler." James couldn't see Petra's face. "So you must have a handler, and who could this be if not Frau Schönberg? So something must have gone wrong and Hydra is no longer sure if they want what they have bought."

"That doesn't explain what you are doing here," Petra pointed out. 

"It does," James contradicted softly. "Comrade Surov was my handler for a long time, and had the best chances of not being met with an arsenal. So, Comrade Surov?"

Surov shrugged. "I drive a taxi these days. The days are long, the pay is little, I live on tips. They pay me to come here and see about the lay of the land. Now it remains what answer I can give them."

"If I go to Hydra, I become an asset again," James said. 

Surov nodded. "Yes. Doubtlessly you will once again be an excellent asset."

"And if I say no, will they come hunt me?"

"That I don't know," Surov said contemplatively. "They may, but the effort might not be worth it to them. They first must get you, then bring you to America, possibly wipe you, put you through indoctrination which they have never done before, find new handlers for you - such work. So much work for an asset who lives peacefully by choice, and whom they do not even know well. Or at all. Who knows, maybe there is somebody with pride who wants you no matter what but from what I hear? Hydra has its own ups and downs these days. They may be busy with their own problems. But I do not know."

Petra considered Surov for a long time. Then, after James had already thought she would say nothing, asked, "Wipe?"

Surov hesitated. James regarded him closely. "Comrade Surov?"

Surov ran his fingertip round the rim of his glass. "Do you remember, James?"

James shook his head. "Nothing definite. I have feelings of what has happened, but where and how and why escapes me."

"Hm." Surov paused. "Well. Indoctrination is not the only thing the chair could do. It could wipe your memory."

"I don't remember - oh."

Petra snorted. "I don't see any invisible little bugs that make me sick - wait..."

Surov nodded at them both. "As you say. James, once I became your handler, you were no longer wiped. I was told that you were becoming unstable if you were wiped to often. My orders were to make sure you did not need to be wiped." He sucked on a tooth for a moment. "When we first met, you were like the snow. Then we coaxed you out of your emptiness, and you, well, you grew up."

James remembered that the handle on the inside of the cryochamber had been installed some three or four missions after Surov had become his handler. Then there had been other people. Young men in the army, some raw recruits, some veteran specialists. He remembered being included. From what Surov said, it had not been that way before. 

"I had other handlers before you. Didn't I?"

Surov nodded. "Of course."

Petra tilted her head at Surov. "Tell me about these handlers."

Surov drank. "A name for people who give orders to people who can't help but follow them. I never liked that part. Give me a man who fights for the glory of the Soviet Union and he will proudly lay down his life for her! A man whose body betrays him when he says no? These Americans are fools, Frau Schönberg, fools! But then, we all were." He laughed bitterly. "The individual was subservient to the Soviet idea, and look where we are now."

James leaned back. "I remember the vodka."

Surov laughed and toasted him. "At first you would not drink. Is my mission now to drink vodka? How we had to convince you! He was a sweet boy," he told Petra conspiratorially. "Cold as Winter in the field, loyal as only a Winter Soldier could be, but a sweet boy."

"I know," Petra said. "James, you interested in going?"

"No," James said. He didn't have to think about it. 

"Then do as you want, not as anybody else does. Be your own damn handler." Petra slammed down her glass. 

Indoctrination ran in circles, winding tighter and tighter and finally snapped back into place. Do as you want. 

James picked up his glass and drank. Surov watched him silently. 

Finally, the old man stood. "I'll tell them you're not interested then. Good luck to you both."

Petra showed him out. James sat with his free choice and didn't know what to do and where to start. 

 

1994

In July, the newest project around the house was a stack of comic books. Charlotte had to be kept away from them which James didn't really mind - Petra had taken the job not for love but for money and one evening finally came down and exploded.

"These things are so shallow you couldn't drown in them if you tried! Give me Asterix! Give me Ralf König! Give me Akira! Donald Duck! Calvin and Hobbes! Elfquest! Give me liberty or give me death!"

James raised his eyebrows at her as Charlotte giggled. The diatribe was in German and he'd understood it very well by then. Petra talked. "Nobody's making you read them. Nutella or ham on your sandwich?"

"Nutella," Petra said, falling into her chair. "Yes, love, come here." Charlotte climbed over to her to play with her necklace. "They're just so American."

"I take offense to that," James said mildly. Privately he thought it was hilarious. 

Petra leaned forward, intensely. "James. These things are about a tiny man who tries to enlist in the army to fight in World War II, where he is bound to be killed in about five seconds. Of course he's found by a German scientist - and by the way, the German written in this comic is no German I even recognize - who turns him into Superman! And off he goes to war."

"Killing Germans," James added.

Petra's shoulders rose and fell. "Killing Nazis. Re-framing it like that is the only way I can stay sane reading or watching movies. And that's not the point. It's all banging around with testosterone poisoning in primary colors. And have you seen the art?" Distractedly, she detached Charlotte from her necklace. "Wipe your fingers, Charlotte, you've got Nutella all over them. That's right. Well done." She pressed a kiss on Charlotte's forehead and obediently presented her own for her own kiss. 

James smiled and slid the Nutella sandwich toward her. "What about the art?" Something was niggling at him. Probably the nearly empty Nutella jar. 

"Oh yes. The art." Petra took a bite of her sandwich. "James. The men are drawn with so many muscles it has nothing to do with anatomy any more." She switched to English. "And their pants are empty."

James swallowed the wrong way, coughing. She pounded his back, undeterred. "Really, they are drawn like they've got the world's best jockstrap. Nothing there."

"Trust you to look," James said, still coughing.

"Can't help it, I have to at least look at what's going on before I can translate," Petra said. 

"You," James told her, "are a nasty old woman."

She laughed. "Go take a look if you don't believe me. I'll get Charlotte to bed." 

James laughed with her and went upstairs. She'd left the comic she was working on open at her desk; he picked another at random. A man dressed in red, white and blue was on the cover, and James felt his hackles rise. Just a comic. He opened it, and the bad feeling intensified. The man's name was Captain America. James knew him. He knew his name. He knew his name.

Steve Rogers. 

The moment of clarity passed and James put the comic down, forcing himself to breathe regularly. Steve Rogers. Who was Steve Rogers?

A face, a smell, the sound of laughter, and the feeling of exasperation. Looking down and looking up. James frowned. It was probably someone he had known. Or several someones, he couldn't tell what memory-impression was real. Or if any was at all real. 

It occurred to him that he might have asked Surov who he had been before. Possibly he had known. A missed chance, then. He had no idea where Surov lived. 

James picked up the comic again, trying to refocus on the memory. Only impressions, but yes, he was getting more of them, he thought. Maybe he could chase this one down. 

The comic opened to a group scene with a squad of soldiers, obviously in enemy territory. It included a black man and an Asian. James felt torn. On the one hand, there had been no mixed units, on the other - this felt right. This felt right in the same way indoctrination settled into place. Which it never would again, now that it had eaten itself. 

The soldiers were bantering, obviously not only comrades but friends. They seemed to be waiting for their sergeant. James had a memory-impression of that feeling as well. Waiting on your superior officer was a mixture of relief that he wasn't there to bust your ass and impatience for him to finally show so you could get on with things. 

Then the man himself appeared, introduced by his full name, nickname, rank and serial number.

James Buchanan Barnes, called Bucky. Sergeant, serial number 32557038. 

James' ears were ringing. He was vaguely aware that he was crushing the comic but couldn't begin to try to stop. The man's face was drawn in the comic's style, his body far too muscular, his face was not a face that James would recognize in the mirror, but he had walked up to his men a thousand times just like this man, and been called Sarge or Bucky, just like this man, and he found himself moving his lips in time to name and numbers. 

"James Buchanan Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant." His voice was growing stronger, and he was growing surer. "James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant, serial number 32557038."

Having said it all, James dropped the comic. 

"My name. My name," he whispered. Then thought, irrelevantly, that Petra would laugh. And mock that he'd found himself in a comic book. 

Petra found him, staring at the comic.

"I didn't think it would piss you off this much," she said softly, rescuing the comic. "Are you okay?"

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," James told her. 

She looked down at the comic, then at James. "You remember?"

"It's ludicrous," he said. But he knew. He was James Buchanan Barnes. "It's a comic. It's made up."

Petra reached over to grab a book from her desk. "Here."

A book on American History. With an entry for Barnes, James Buchanan "Bucky". "That's me. Petra, that's me."

"I believe you," she said softly. "Read to me who you are?"

James shook, then leafed through the pages. Rogers, Steve - nothing. He swallowed hard. "Steve. Steve is missing."

"Steve? Who's he?"

"Steve Rogers," James told her, looking for the index. "Captain America."

"Uh." Petra stared at him. "James, from what I read, Captain America's name was never released to the public, he was always known only by that identity. There's even a footnote in the comic about it, that they gave him a made-up name because the military wouldn't release the information."

James shook his head impatiently. "Yes, yes, but I knew him. He was my friend. My best friend. I knew him when he was tiny, and then we fought in the war, after he got the treatment. His name was Steve Rogers. He was my friend." His eyes were beginning to tear up. "What happened to him?"

Petra didn't meet his eyes. "After Bucky Barnes died - went missing in action, rather - Captain America went on a mission to stop this Hydra weirdo with the red skull from sending an airplane across the Atlantic to bomb out New York City. He defeated the Hydra freak and crashed the plane in the Arctic." She paused; James was laughing. "You okay?"

"Fuck, but that is so much like him. Never did know when to back down." He frowned. "Wait a minute. He crashed the plane? Did they find it?"

"Not according to the book," Petra said. "But according to the book Bucky Barnes died falling from a train."

James opened the book to the entry for Captain America. Steve had gone down into the ocean thinking Bucky was dead. James rubbed at his eyes. Steve. 

"Come on," Petra said, taking the book out of his hands. "This calls for gin."

He followed her down, sat at the kitchen table, and drank with her, four glasses for each one of hers. The gin burned going down, and finally let the tears out. Steve was gone, and he hadn't even known to grieve for him. Oh Steve. 

When the gin was gone, they shifted to the living room and Petra began to mix Screwdrivers and Moscow Mules with James' vodka. He wept against her shoulder, and told her in stops and starts about Steve, about being Bucky Barnes. He told her about the time and the place, about coming to Germany, about being a soldier, and how he thought he could take on the world if only Steve was with him. He told her about Steve being small and so stubborn he wouldn't die. She laughed at the story of Steve trying to enlist with more and more lies, and he loved her for it. 

So he kissed her. She kissed him back, and on the couch, James made love to her, tasting vodka and lime. She moved against him like the tides moved against the beach, an unbearable sorrow. 

***

James woke slowly, and thought: My name is Bucky. And I have done something very stupid. 

Petra was sitting at the kitchen table, looking hungover and sallow. She didn't look up when he came in.

James sat across from her. He could smell vomit on her breath. 

"Petra."

She looked up.

"I'm gay. I'm not going to sleep with you again."

She blinked. Then twitched a smile. "Glad to hear it. I was trying to figure out how to tell you that wasn't going to happen again."

James shrugged.

Petra sighed. "How'd you come to the conclusion that you're gay?"

James thought of her Ralf König comics and said, "Steve."

"Oh." A pause. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah."

"You didn't mention it last night." 

James shook his head. "No."

"Thank you for telling me." Petra got up. "That was about as much emotionality I can take for the day. And how is it that you haven't got a hangover?"

James smirked at her. She gave him the finger. 

***

It was October when James found Petra sitting on the bathtub, staring at a pregnancy test. 

"I'm pregnant," Petra said, jaw clenched. "If stupidity hurt, I'd need morphine right now."

James shrugged. "We were drunk."

"Yeah, because I've never fucked drunk before. But I never forgot the condoms. Or my pill. Damn it."

"Petra."

"James!" She threw the test against the sink where it bounced off to hit the cosmetics basket. "I'm too old for a baby."

James was pretty sure he remembered fifty-year old mothers. "You are not."

Petra rounded on him. "I'm forty-four! By the time this baby is of age, I'll be sixty-five!"

James shrugged again. "And by the time Charlotte will be of age, you'll be sixty-two. Big difference."

Petra sighed. "I didn't want any children. Especially not without -" She broke off.

"Without a father," James said as gently as he could. At her look he smiled. "It wasn't that hard to figure out, Petra. Did he just say no?"

"Ha." Petra shook her head. "No, that would have been endurable. He waited until I came home with Charlotte and the papers from the undertaker and asked me to go find a hotel, he wasn't comfortable with a baby."

James breathed deeply, feeling his blood boil. It was probably best he'd never met this former partner of Petra's. "What did you do?"

"Kicked him out."

"Come on, details."

Petra laughed. "There aren't many. I told him to give me his key and to leave and never come back. He didn't believe me at first, then asked me if I was choosing the baby over him. I said yes and then Charlotte started screaming." She leaned back against the wall. "I think I thought that welcome was why she didn't stop crying. I didn't blame her."

"No." James sat next to her, now that an explosion did not seem imminent. "Petra, you're not alone now."

"No," she said contemplatively. "No, I'm not, am I. Thank you."

"You're welcome. But we're naming him Steve."

She straightened. "Oh Hell no. He'd spend all his life trying to explain to people how to pronounce his name."

"Steve," James said, smiling. 

"You keep trying," Petra said, rolling her eyes. 

 

1995

Petra came back from the hospital by taxi, baby in a car seat doubling as a crib. Charlotte was jumping up and down with excitement and James wished he could do the same. Petra had called from the hospital that everything was all right, but Charlotte (and James) could not wait to see the baby.

Charlotte, once she had been allowed to kiss her cousin, and told him that she was going to be the best cousin ever and would protect him from all the children in kindergarten, was willing to eat the Überraschungsei Petra had brought her and leave James and Petra to regard the new addition.

"Steve," James said softly. 

Petra sighed and said, "No. But I'm willing to compromise. Stefan."

James side-eyed her. "Stefan. Really."

Petra smiled. "Stefan."

James considered her for a moment. "You already registered the name, didn't you."

"Maybe."

"Well." 

"You want to hold him?"

Wasn't he going to break him? He was so small. Had Charlotte been this small?

Petra patted his shoulder and went off to sit with Charlotte.

James looked down at the red and scrunched-up face. His son was asleep, tiny mouth open. So small. Such a small thing, but so much like Charlotte when he first saw her. And something like indoctrination settling when he received his orders settled again within his bones again. He ran one careful fingertip over Stefan's cheek. So soft. So small.

He would grow, though. And James would be there to see him grow. 

He spent most of the day sitting by the crib, petting Stefan and whispering softly to him. Then Petra had enough and laid the baby in his arms, and James held him until he woke.

***

When Charlotte had been small, James had observed her great events with distance still, but he could not do so with Stefan. When Stefan learned to crawl, to sit, to stand, to walk, his first words, James committed the moments to memory, precious and singular all of them. While he could never see Steve in Stefan, he always wondered what Steve would say and how he would feel about James' son. 

 

1996

The children in bed, Petra opened a new bottle of gin. James frowned, then sat across from her. 

"Something going badly?"

"Maybe," Petra said. "I just realized you've been here for four years and haven't left the house."

"I go outside," James protested.

She raised her brows at him. He shrugged. "You know what I mean. Aren't you - you know - bored with this?"

James laughed. "Two children and you think I have time to be bored?"

"Don't evade the subject."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" James demanded. "Am I happy not leaving? Yes. Would it be nice to have the option? Sure, but it's not a priority. Is it worth looking for somebody to sell me a fake ID? No. As long as I'm here and not on anybody's radar, this is safe."

Petra blinked. James rolled his eyes at her. "Petra, I was an assassin. I don't want to be that again. I don't want to kill people anymore. The most pressing problem here is to stop Stefan from drinking Charlotte's antibiotics, and the bloodiest thing around here is the trashcan in the bathroom six days out of thirty, and the most dangerous thing around here is the socket that keeps falling off. This is what I want."

Petra clinked her glass against his. "Good thing you're staying then. Also. Never say that about the trashcan again." 

 

1999

Stefan's first year in kindergarten went well enough, particularly since Charlotte took him by the hand and informed everybody that this was her baby cousin and he was going to be in her group. Then she involved him in every game and by the time the first week had passed, Stefan had friends as well. By the time he'd been there for three months, he had a girlfriend. Petra had laughed her ass off. 

She'd enrolled in several correspondence courses, but she never completed any classwork. James was the one how studied under her name. History and politics, and if he knew better occasionally, he didn't let on. But he had lived through the Thirties, and he remembered. 

They had bought two computers, set up in the office facing away from each other. James worked on his courses, Petra on her translations. His earphones played classical music and instrumental, hers German music about rebellion and the destruction of the ruling classes. He occasionally joked that she would have made a better communist than he. 

Petra's only reaction had been to belt out the lyrics at the top of her lungs. 

The internet had opened James' world in a way that had delighted him and Petra. The world was open to him now, and he still had not left the property in body, but with the internet he could go anywhere. It was wonderful. 

 

2001

They sat in front of the TV, Petra in horrified stillness, James with tears running down his face. They had no words. 

 

2002

The first was a black man with an eyepatch. 

"Nicholas Fury, ma'am." He shook Petra's hand. "I'm the director of SHIELD."

Petra exchanged a glance with James. "Petra Schönberg. But I suppose you saw my name on the doorbell."

Fury smiled. "Of course. But I have actually come to speak with your guest."

Petra fixed him with her glare. James leaned against the doorjamb. Fury was unarmed and his blind side was to James. If he tried anything, he would be dead before he hit the ground.

"Have you?" Petra said. "Why?"

"May I step inside?" Fury asked. "This may not be a conversation for open air."

Petra didn't shift. "I haven't decided whether I want you in my house. Talk here."

"There is a war on," Fury said. "And it's getting worse. It will not stop with Afghanistan. Iraq is next. We need every man."

"To do what?" Petra demanded. "Fight a war of aggression over terror? Because that works? Mr. Fury, I am old enough to remember the RAF. Not the Royal Air Force, in this instance," she added acerbically. "The Rote Armee Fraktion. I remember living in fear of terrorists. I'm sure the British will tell you the same: as soon as you call it a war against terror, you've already lost all you're fighting for. You've already lost your freedom, Mr. Fury, all that's left is to keep pretending you haven't."

Fury didn't blink. "A good speech, Ms. Schönberg. But what does your guest say?"

James detached himself from the doorjamb. "Mr. Fury, what is it you want me to do?"

Fury turned to him. "Damage control. You are one of the very, very few soldiers who have the reputation and the ability to take control of a bad situation and calm it down."

Petra snorted. "He can't keep two children from fighting, what makes you think he can make two armies stop. Captain Carrot he ain't."

Fury frowned. "Those children aren't soldiers."

"No," James said, "they're not. Mr. Fury, I've been out of the business for ten years. If you want a hero, you need to look elsewhere."

"I would if I could," Fury said. "But Captain America is dead."

"Oh oh." Petra took a step back. 

James felt his lips draw back from his teeth. "Answer's no. Go away. I find you here again, I'll put a fist through your face and it will be the metal one."

"Understood," Fury said.

***

The second was a nondescript, medium man with a neutrally British accent.

"MI6. John Smith. We would like to make you an offer."

"No. Fuck off."

***

The third was a sour-faced suit. 

"John Smith from the CIA. Your country needs you."

"My country hasn't needed me in decades. Piss off."

***

For variety, the fourth was a woman.

"Shirel Jabarin from the Mossad. We heard that you have refused other offers and have one of our own."

"Seriously? Mossad? Seriously? Also, no."

***

The fifth was different.

"Your services have already been bought by us. You have a duty to Hydra."

"Fuck that. And fuck you. And fuck who you are working for. And fuck the fuck off because nobody and nothing owns me. If you ever come back, I will destroy you and your entire fucking Greek myth. Go."

James slammed the door shut. Petra was shaking with silent laughter. "Do these people just not get the fucking hint?"

Petra gave up and laughed aloud.

 

2008

"The truth is. I am Iron Man."

Petra buried her face in her hands. "That man is batshit insane."

Stefan looked at her, shocked to his teenage soul. "Mama, is that any way to talk about people?"

James laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Sarcasm is unbecoming, Stefan."

"Is that why you use it all the time?"

"Lies and slander," James said comfortably. "I never do."

Petra's face was still hidden behind her hands. "Wouldn't that man move you to sarcasm?" 

"I suppose he would," James said. "But then I knew somebody just. As. Crazy."

"Who?" Charlotte demanded, most of her attention on her Nintendo DS. "Steve?"

"Of course, Steve." James smiled. "Steve also didn't know when to shut the hell up."

Petra leaned back. "But you loved him anyhow."

"I did," James said. Stefan leaned into the hug. "I really did."

 

2010

Charlotte had decided that her name was Charlie and would react to nothing else. Petra went around in the worst mood ever for three weeks after she turned sixty and James still had yet to develop a single wrinkle or grey hair. Stefan beleaguered them regularly about a mofa license and the world went on. 

Charlie was looking at a few dozen options of what to do once she finished her abitur, considering everything from becoming a travel blogger to a neurosurgeon. James figured he could do nothing more to stand back and hope for the best once she decided what it was going to be. If he had learned anything about the children, it was that pressure never worked.

As the children grew into adults, James thought of the future. Petra was growing old and when she died, James would have to think about what to do. He could only hope that that time was a long time in coming. 

 

2012

"That is the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Petra said, "and that's saying something. Especially after the last few years."

James could think of a weirder thing, but an alien army invading New York was pretty far up the scale. 

"Are those humans?"

"Not sure about the green one."

"Arrows? Really?"

Petra only shook her head. James ran a hand over his face. "Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Wait. What is that?"

He leaned forward. A blur of red, white and blue had been thrown out of a building. The blur turned into something person-shaped and James felt his hands ball into fists. The uniform, the shoulders, the mind-boggling, incredible disregard for his own life - 

"Petra, that is Steve."

Petra turned to him then looked back at the screen. "James, Steve is dead."

"So I thought," James said darkly. "But that is Steve. That can only be Steve."

"Wow." Petra stared. "That's two World War II guys still alive and young. If it turns out Hitler's still alive, I'm quitting."

"If he is, we'll kill him," James said absently, eyes glued to the screen. "I've got to go to New York."

"You have a metal arm," Petra said. 

"I'll take a boat."

"You don't have ID."

Now Steve was doing something obviously dangerous with the one with the cape. "Look at this. He needs someone to watch his back."

"He has someone. Several someones," Petra pointed out. "And even if you left right this second - did he just use his shield to deflect Iron Man's hand beam thingy?"

"Yeah," James said and was sure that the smile on his face was stupid. "Good tactics. Now if only he stops trying to get himself killed."

"Back to my original point," Petra said, brushing her hair out of her face. "Even if you left now, you'd never get there in time to do anything. By the time you can physically get to New York, they'll either have destroyed it or the alien army or both."

She wasn't wrong. But this was Steve and if there was one thing James would always do it was to watch out for Steve.

"I have to tell him I'm alive."

***

"Okay," Petra said, "the internet has nearly crashed due to all this news traffic. Like on September 11. But I have the website to Stark Industries open and there is a weird catch-all phone number with a New York number. Are you sure you don't want to call yourself?"

"A woman is less threatening," James said.

Petra snorted. "Tell that to the redhead. The way she rode that one guy? Whooo."

James breathed deeply. "You call. Please. I haven't talked to ten people other than you three for nearly twenty years. I - have no idea what to say."

"Great." Petra started dialing. "Here goes nothing." 

001 - 646 - 

"You have reached Stark Tower. My name is Jarvis. How may I assist you?" Petra put the phone on speaker.

"Hello Mr. Jarvis. My name is Petra Schönberg. I'm calling from Germany."

"Hello Ms. Schönberg. How may I be of assistance?"

Petra chewed on her lower lip. "We saw on the TV today that Mr. Stark fought the alien army. One of the people he was fighting with is Captain America, real name Steve Rogers." James made faces and mouthed a name at her. "Sorry, Steven Grant Rogers. Can you confirm that?"

"May I ask where you have heard that Captain America is named Steven Grant Rogers?"

Petra looked at James. James nodded. "Mr. Rogers' best friend has been living with me for twenty years. He saw him today on TV and asked that I call. Actually, all I want to ask is if Mr. Stark can tell Mr. Rogers that James Barnes is at this address and can be reached at this phone number. If he wants to call."

"I see." There was a pause as Jarvis seemed to think. "If you will please tell me your address, I will pass the message on." 

"Of course. Do you have a pen?"

"I am quite ready," Jarvis said so dryly that James imagined a desert. 

Petra told him their address, her name again and their phone number. "We're six hours ahead of you in case Mr. Rogers decides to call."

"I will make a note, Ms. Schönberg. Thank you for calling Stark Tower."

"Thank you, Mr. Jarvis." Petra hung up. 

James closed his eyes. Petra's hand found his. "He may not call," she said softly. "Maybe it's his grandson. A clone. Something."

"I know," James said. But hope sat in his heart like a rusty saw.

***

Having seen the children - not that they were anymore, but it was comfortable to think of them that way - out the door, James and Petra cleared the battlefield that was the kitchen after breakfast. Stefan at sixteen made even more of a mess than the two of them together had at five and two respectively, and was running late as always. Petra occasionally mumbled things about instituting cleaning time but such a rule never materialized. After all Stefan, as opposed to Charlie, was always willing to help around the household. 

Petra turned on the dishwasher and James frowned. "Is that on the fritz again? That noise doesn't sound good."

"I don't think it's this time. That's coming from outside." Petra turned to peer out the kitchen window. "If it's another traffic helicopter I'm writing a nasty letter, there is no damn traffic out here, if they want to spy on us, they can be fucking open about it."

"Your paranoia is showing," James said, joining her at the window. The noise was coming closer. "That is not a helicopter."

It wasn't. It was a kite-shaped black hightech plane with VTO technology. 

"Are they landing on my lawn?" Petra demanded, outrage slowly building in her voice. 

"On the grass at least," James said. His stomach was a lump of ice. 

"Seems like Mr. Jarvis passed the message on." 

The hold of the plane was opening and Tony Stark descended, followed by Steve. James couldn't breathe. Petra put down the dishtowel. 

James watched them approach and couldn't figure out how he felt. From the moment he'd remembered, he'd kept Steve and his love in his heart and mind, but it had been almost twenty years. How had it been for Steve?

"You want to get the door?" Petra asked. 

James swallowed. "You - can you go? I need a moment."

"Sure."

He sat down hard at the table, flesh hand gripping metal. Through the hallway, he heard the door opening, Petra's voice, then Stark's, then Steve's. Cadence, melody, rise and fall. James closed his eyes. 

Steps leading toward the kitchen. James got up as Petra gestured Steve into the kitchen ahead of her and Stark and there he was, Steve. 

He looked just like the last time James had seen him. James had to smile, and then Steve smiled, brokenly and full of hope and then James was caught in Steve's arms and it was finally all right and and it was all James could do to kiss him. Steve held him tightly, closely, and James sighed into him, because things were finally right again. Steve huffed a little breath, and they parted in favor of looking at each other.

"Okay, I did not see that coming -"

Petra interrupted Stark. "I take it you're staying to eat then?"

Steve made as if to pull away. James wouldn't let him so he just craned his head around to look at Petra. "If we may?"

"Right," she said. "James, does he eat like you?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'd better get some more groceries. Mr. Stark, have you ever been in a German supermarket?"

Stark coughed. "Not as such."

"Then you can join me. You have the choice of Rewe, Reichelt and Kaisers." 

James heard them leave and chuckled. Steve rested his forehead against his. "She'll take two hours at least."

"Supermarket so far away?" Steve asked, voice breaking.

"Only half an hour," James said. "But I've chewed her ears off about you and she - she gets it."

"Bucky," Steve said. James waited if there was anything else forthcoming, but there didn't seem to be.

"Steve," he said. "What the hell happened? I saw a history book, that you crashed a plane? Really?"

"Oh. Yeah," Steve said. "I got frozen."

"Be more fucking careful," James told him. Steve half sobbed, half laughed. "I was about to swim to New York when I saw you on TV. Were you trying to get killed?"

"No," Steve sobbed, and those were tears in his eyes. "I just didn't care that much. Everything was broken, the whole world is a catastrophe, and you were gone and Peggy's in a nursing home dying of old age. I hate dealing with all this, it looks like everything was for nothing."

"Not for nothing," James said. "You're here now."

"I'm with you," Steve whispered. "Everything is better now."

***

By the time Petra and Stark came back, James and Steve were camped out at the kitchen table with a stack of photo albums of the last twenty years. Petra plunked her basket on the counter and peered at the current pictures, grinning.

"Baby pictures are his secret weakness," she said. Steve looked up at her, smiling.

"They seem like wonderful children."

"They are," James said. "What did you get?"

"Beef," said Stark, depositing a plastic bag on the kitchen table. "Apparently, the Germans are fond of beef."

"We're fond of every kind of meat," Petra told him. "We have an hour and a half before the children get home and will fall upon us like locusts. Steve, James tells me you're a dab hand with the potatoes?"

Steve smiled at that and James saw in Petra's face just how bright that smile was. He'd thought he was the only one who saw that, aside from Peggy Carter. But apparently, Steve's light was visible for everyone. "Yes, ma'am."

"Petra. Please." 

"Petra."

***

They cooked, and by the time the stew was ready, the children had arrived, already awash with questions because of course they'd seen the plane. Charlie took the strangers in stride, whispering in a quiet moment to James that if Steve didn't belong to James, she'd so tap that, no question. James tousled her short hair and reminded her that just last week she'd declared herself a lesbian and not interested in any man. Charlie informed him that she'd be making an exception for Steve - except that Steve was James'.

Stefan was a little shy, opening up mostly to Tony Stark about computers and robotics and mechanics. He quizzed him about Iron Man, alloys, paints and difficulties. Occasionally, James reminded him gently that he couldn't have every detail. Secretly, he felt deeply grateful to Stark that he was patient with his boy on the cusp of manhood, undecided about anything yet. 

James watched Steve watching Petra and the children and thought it was all going well, when Stefan finally put his shoulders back and leveled a glare at Steve. 

"Is my father going to leave with you?"

Steve looked at James. "We haven't talked about -"

James went for the immediate interrupt. "No." 

Steve swallowed hard. "Bucky -"

"Steve, no. I'm not leaving." Stark looked surprised. Charlie seemed quietly relieved, and Petra's face twisted slightly. James looked at Stefan. "I'm not going anywhere. Not even with Steve."

"But you love him," Stefan said. "So much."

"I love you, too," James told him. "I'm not leaving. Okay?"

"Okay." Stefan poked at his food. "Ever?"

"I don't know," James said. "Ever is too long to make promises for. But while you're here, I won't go."

Steve was biting his lip. "I can visit, I guess."

James looked at Petra. She nodded. "Would you like to stay?"

Steve frowned. "What? Here?"

"Not on the lawn at least," Petra mumbled. "Yes. Here."

So much confusion. James sighed. "We're offering for you to move in with us. Here. In this house."

"Captain America, living in Germany," Stark drawled. "Shocking."

"Just think about it," James said. 

"I will," said Steve and his face was full of hope.

***

Steve spent half his time in New York, half in Petra's old house. He got to know the children better, and often brought presents from Stark to Stefan. Petra and James rearranged the house to suit their new housemate, fixing up the attic as a studio for Steve. Soon his art covered their walls - save for Petra's bedroom which still sported an oversized picture of Che Guevara. 

Charlie went to university to study law, dressed in a conservative suit, her hair dyed in punk style, visible tattoos and piercings. Stefan decided on physiotherapy, choosing a school in Berlin. The house felt emptier but Steve's presence filled the empty spaces.

Petra had long talks about politics with both of them and she hadn't gotten any less radical in her old age. Seventy came and went, and by the time she was seventy-five, James and Steve had to rearrange the setup of the house because she could no longer manage stairs. 

Steve brought back souvenirs and fantastic tales from all over the world where he traveled with the Avengers, recipes and drawings, pictures taken with his phone and offshoots from any interesting plants he came across. They set aside a plot for him to plant these and he was often successful in making them grow. The world had once again expanded and James had not left the property once.

***

The children drove back from Petra's funeral, both tear-stained, but, as Steve reminded James, children no longer but grown-ups with children of their own. Charlie showed the picture of the wreath to James who was surprised to find his name with that of Charlie and Stefan. 

They helped set aside her things, sharing among them the possessions Petra had wanted them to have, when it was clear that her time was coming. 

James kissed the children, and the children's children, and waved as Charlie and Stefan bundled up their wives and families and set out for home. 

Steve was waiting for him, the plane parked on the grass which still, despite Petra's insistence, was not a lawn but at most a meadow.

James slung his bag over his shoulder and looked back at the house. 

"Let's go."

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> It has never made sense to me that any organization or any handler would treat the Winter Soldier badly. After all, if you have a highly trained, highly dangerous operative you expect to kill for you, why would you make him want to kill you?
> 
> Let's blame Hydra for being idiots.


End file.
